An Awkward Position
by SewerUrchin
Summary: One year after the events of The Fetal Position and A Comfy Position, Betty and Daniel take a 3 am ride. DB
1. Chapter 1: Patches

**Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own "Ugly Betty" or any of the characters or brand names mentioned. Unlike Daniel Meade, I'm broke as a joke, so please don't sue me.**

**A/N: Well, you guys twisted by arm…these things are a series now. Sigh. Just kidding, I'm having a blast ;) Words cannot say how much I appreciate my reviewers. So I'll just say "THANK YOU ALL!!!" So, without further ado, here's the next installment in the "Positions of Fluff, Angst and Unresolved Sexual Tension" series. By the way, this fic takes place one year after the events of "The Fetal Position"/ "A Comfy Position." Hope you like!**

By all accounts, Daniel should've been over the moon. The model's name was Patches-- _see, Betty, I found out her name this time, neener-neener boo-boo!_ She was an exquisite strawberry-blonde with legs that stretched into another time zone and a set of knockers that would put his brother's to shame. Yes, his family was weird. She was from another country—_he hadn't bothered to learn which one, it's not like he was going to marry her or anything, sheesh Betty!_—and the fact that neither of them could understand a blessed word the other was saying was a help rather than a hindrance tonight, as Daniel would soon discover.

So, they were really going at it, and for the first time in about six months Daniel thought that once, just once, he could be with a woman without thinking about _her_. When he yelled "BETTY!" at the critical moment, however, that theory was kind of shot straight to hell.

_This is getting ri-goddamned-diculous, _Daniel thought. At least he didn't have to bother explaining to Patches who exactly Betty was like he'd had to do with the last, oh, seventy women he'd screwed over the past while.

Patches, for her part, was happy as a clam; she wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, he'd picked up on that right off, and could barely understand her own language, much less his. She seemed to take "BETTY!" as an indication of either her sexual prowess or his.

"Betty!" she giggled, rolling off of him and onto the mattress. "Betty!"

An hour later, after he'd piled What's-Her-Dumb-Ass into a cab, he returned to his not-so-swingin'-at-the-moment bachelor pad and mulled over what to do. His first instinct, as always, was to call Betty. Tonight's events would make this somewhat awkward, and the knowledge that this was the one problem of his since he'd met her that he couldn't talk openly to his soul mate about was killing him.

Daniel cringed away from the words "soul" and "mate" and especially crammed together as they often were to indicate sappy, trite, Hallmark-worthy closeness; he really preferred the term "kindred spirits" as applied to him and Betty. From the moment he'd seen her smack right into the glass wall of the conference room, everything just sort of clicked into place, and despite his initial mental reservations, his emotions, his feelings, his heart had always been clinging to her Guadalajara poncho for dear life since the second he saw her wide-open, blue, train-track grin.

Oh, she assured him over and over again that she depended on him as much as he did her, but despite his fervid and pathetic hopes, he tended to doubt that this was true. The girl was really quite the paradox. She could look at him in such a childlike way sometimes, her determinedly beating, bleeding heart torn out and pinned to her polka-dotted sleeve, her sweet ideals such that the bitchy, bulimic, panty-less, crack-fiend model that had thrown her coffee at her this morning was really just having a bad day and would emerge as Mother Teresa if she only had someone friendly to talk to—these were the things that made Daniel ache to protect her, to pad the safe underneath his desk with cotton wool and lock her in until the coast was clear.

But his Betty was an "old soul," too, as Alexis had quietly observed once. Betty was indeed that, whereas Daniel felt that he would eternally retain the emotional maturity of a seventeen year old. Betty openly admired his worldliness, and worldly he was, but the fact remained that more often than not, Betty was his shield, his comfort, his person, his everything for the times when his worldliness turned into just plain jadedness, when his head spun from too much champagne and he needed to talk, when the entourage of sycophants that were always cackling around him like hyenas around a wildebeest carcass practically pushed him into the gaudy explosions of the stalker-azzi's flashbulbs.

She was there for those moments that were really par for the course for the Meade clan, moments that had had them all sailing onward to therapy, ho! on a wing and a prayer since he was about twelve--moments like his brother Alex's triumphant (he guessed) return from the dead as Alexis, sporting a new rack and a chip on her shoulder (_ten years_ _worth of therapy and Betty_), like the times when Wili had her bitch on (read: always) (_no real therapy required for that one, just lots of Betty_), like his mother's drunken attempts to striptease on the corner for cash after Bradford had shut down her funds (it was working until Betty and Daniel had put the kibosh on it—_fifteen years worth of therapy and Betty_).

He had to see her. If he called her, she would probably tell him to take an aspirin, a cold shower, and then bed. And what would he say, exactly? _Hey, Betty, it's me, I know it's, like, 2 AM and all, hope you're not pissed. But I just wanted to remind you to put the finishing touches on the Fabia presentation Power Point and don't forget to be the mother of my children…_

No, if he wanted to see his girl, launching a sneak attack would be the best. She could rarely refuse him face to face. Filled with purpose, he started to get dressed, but abruptly stopped, hitting an, um, snag when he tried to pull up his jeans.

He decided that the cold shower might not be such a horrible idea.

**Have no fear, this one's a multi-chapter! Love it, hate it, flame it, worship it (okay, maybe not the last two) please review!**


	2. Chapter 2: General McCutie

**I'm on a roll...sort of.**

Betty Suarez lay in bed wrapped in her Little Mermaid comforter so that nothing but her nose was exposed (oxygen being important for brain function and all) and thought about…things, namely her recent breakup with Giovanni Rossi. It had been quick, clean and civil, and that's about all she could say for it, a fitting ending for a pleasant enough yet wholly unremarkable relationship.

She wouldn't do Gio the disservice of filing him away as "Rebound Guy"; in fact, his only real fault wasn't unique just to him—he simply fell under the category of Guys Who Are Not Daniel Meade, that's all.

She felt like she owed it to Gio to at least have a good cry, a sniffle, a twinge in her sinus cavities, but she hadn't the energy to summon it at the present moment. Betty couldn't disagree with Christina that she wasn't fully able to commit to Gio from the get-go, a fact that had caused her much-beleaguered conscience to almost throw up its hands in defeat. When they'd first gotten together, her heart had been reduced to a nice, raw pulp from the Meat Grinder-of-Angst-o'-Rama-and-Baby-Mama-Drama that was Henry/Betty.

So she hadn't gone in firing on all cylinders and by her exit they were both all but dead in the water. Gio was a good guy, though, and she truly hoped that he could find a nice girl, preferably someone whose whole being wasn't on a crash course for gorgeous blue eyes and brunette locks as complicated with gel as the man himself…WHOA. Not. Going. There. Tonight. if sleep was going to be even the remotest possibility.

Apparently, sleep wasn't in the cards. Betty heard the roar of a car's engine outside the Casa de Suarez. _Okay, who's the tool?_ The thing had to have frigging glass packs—someone must have an awfully tiny penis.

Then she realized who it was and gave a snort. Daniel. No tiny penis there, if every woman on the East Coast was to be believed.

Yep, there went the trashcan, the mailbox, and possibly the neighbors' dog…again. Daniel's parking really was for shit. Encased in Ariel, she padded over and peeked out the window. Sure enough, there sat Daniel's jet black Lamborghini, butterfly doors, lights that were illegal in all fifty states and in general looking like some kind of alien Mother Ship. Betty guessed, given its usual occupants, that in a way, it was.

She heard rustling close to the base of the ancient oak tree outside her window, and there was Himself, black leather Hugo Boss jacket, yummy, tight jeans stretching across a spectacular ass—_that's enough now, Betty_—as he climbed. Betty was smirking, watching in fond _–cough-horniness-cough_ amusement when he reached her window.

He shot her his patented exasperated look, a look that, of late, had been tempered with such smoldering feeling, like he would love nothing better than to spread her on his onion bagel and devour her on the spot along with his morning coffee (_black with lots of sugar, good girl--think about coffee, think about bears on unicycles, the feeding habits of salmon, anything but where your mind's going for crap's sake, Betty!_)

Now they were nose-to-nose.

"Nice work," she said dryly, hoping he didn't notice how her palms where currently sweating out all the year's calories. He smelled like sex, she noticed, musky, sweaty sex, and _you are NOT jealous, no ma'am! What've we talked about? That feeling will turn you inside out and then tear you to shreds, especially with this man. Remember Amanda? Yeah, figured._

"You mean you've been watching me nearly break all my parts trying to climb this godforsaken tree?"

"Yep."

"You could've just climbed down—you have more practice with this"… _God, their lips were inches apart…_ "particular hunk of wood." _And speaking of wood…_

"I thought you should _earn_ my excellent company for once," Betty said. It looked like tonight was going to be one of the rare gems in which Entitled Possessive Little Rich Boy Best Friend was going to rear his thick, spiky head. She'd learned from experience that there was no sense in humoring him when he was being this tiresome.

"Consider it earned, miss. Come for a ride with me." It was an order. Funny, he never imperiously barked commands at her in a boss/assistant capacity, but often felt completely free in his role as "The Best Damn Friend—You Hear That, Gio? HA!" to do so, like it was his birthday and he was General Daniel-Knows-Best or something. Of course, turnabout was fair play.

She informed General McCutie, "I'm in my pajamas. And it's 3 am."

"Your point being?"

She took a deep breath. "If I don't get my rest, I'll be off my game tomorrow. You may get three packs of sugar in your coffee instead of four, then your energy will drop and your Editor-in-Chiefing won't be up to snuff, the magazine will die a quick yet painful death and Wili will go in for the kill…Oh, screw it, I'll meet you out front. And try not to break your neck on the way down."

**Reviews are love :)**


	3. Chapter 3: Tacos in Paradise

**As always, a ginormous "Thank you" to my reviewers! **

Betty stomped out the door and into the front yard. She was wearing her pajamas with the dancing cupcakes, red fuzzy god-awful bedroom slippers and hair disheveled all to hell, and Daniel thought he'd never seen anything hotter.

"How many Muppets had to die for those slippers?" he teased, because he really liked poking a bear with a stick, Betty knew. "What'd you have to do, club Elmo into submission? I'll bet he was a biter."

Betty stuck out her little pink tongue at him. "I see you brought the Over-Compensation Mobile," she said, sliding inside. _Oooh, seat warmers!_

Daniel got in the driver's seat, realizing how much he loved the easy back-and-forth between them, neither of them really worried about offending the other. Sure, of late, the back-and-forth had involved a lot more staring at each other's lips than there used to be, but still. He reached over and buckled Betty up, giving the excuse that that particular seatbelt was tricky to buckle, but really just making sure she did it.

Betty noted his pointed lack of seatbelt and muttered "hypocrite." Daniel needn't have worried that she wouldn't buckle up. Daniel drove about like one would assume he did—crazy as a mo'fo'. Driving with Daniel was about like anything else with Daniel—you just had to strap in, hold on tight, and hope to God on high that you didn't wind up dead, pregnant or very, very confused.

Once they were screaming out of Jackson Heights, Betty turned her body to face him. "So what's new?"

_Oh, nothing, except I can't work up a decent boner anymore unless I think about you, and then I'm rarin' to go. And by the way, I want to park somewhere overlooking the city and ravish you, except you're the best friend I ever had and if I, literally, screw this up, I'll never forgive myself, never recover…_

Wisely forgoing that response, he said, "I should ask you the same thing. No more Gio, huh?"

Although his words seemed mild enough, Betty realized she needed to choose her next words very carefully to spare Gio bodily harm, courtesy of Daniel. It was obvious that the two men had hated each other on sight. Gio had seen Daniel as, well, most people saw Daniel—"Uber-rich, Spoiled-Brat, Womanizing Punk," and Daniel, admittedly, had done little to change that notion. And Daniel had seen Gio as "Guy with My Betty Who Is Not Me (or Mister Rogers)." To both their credits, however, they had managed to keep it coldly civil. But she knew that when Daniel's voice took on a deceptively flat, almost gentle monotone when he inquired about people, places and things, he was taking serious mental stock of the situation, gauging your response, determining what needed to be done. She would have to stall for time.

"Look, if I was rousted out of bed at 3 am to spill my guts, I need tacos. And guess what, Richie Rich? You're buying."

Pulling away from the Taco Emporium drive-thru, Daniel couldn't help but think, _I rousted you out of bed at 3 am because, God help me, I can't stop thinking about you, wanting to smell your shampoo, jonesing for a touch from those tiny warm hands, the sound of your voice. That last, especially…even if you were mine for eternity, us sleeping wrapped up in each other, I'd still wake you up every morning at 3 am just to hear that sleepy-gruff, sexy-as-hell voice, all kittenish and mad…_

He had to snap out of it. He was behind the wheel of a car carrying precious cargo, and that cargo was asking him a question.

"Where are we going?"

"To visit someone."

"What someone?"

"Someone I've neglected."

They had moved off the main highway and onto a gravel path, wrought iron gates with little decorative lions standing sentinel.

"Daniel, we're in the cemetery. The rich-people cemetery."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Grab your tacos and follow me."

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls." Taking his gloved, outstretched hand, they made there way to a plot somewhere in the middle; the cities' lights twinkled reassuringly in the distance.

"We're not going to metaphorically bury Gio out here are…oh, hello, Mr. Meade," Betty stammered.

A massive, pointy obelisk, "Bradford Meade" freshly carved on its marble surface, stood as austere as the man buried beneath it. Taking in the sheer size of the thing with a wry glance, Daniel said, "And you accused me of overcompensating."

Lacing her fingers with his and leaning against him, Betty said, "Sweetie, am I going to have to ask the obvious question here…?"

"I couldn't go alone. I haven't been out here since the funeral, when I was surrounded with people. I know he's dead and he can't see me standing here in front of him now and this is gonna sound nuts, but…every time I thought about going out here, I would flash back to those times in his office, him shouting at me across the desk, his focus completely on his disappointment in me and nobody else, nobody to bear some of the brunt." He chuckled low and sad in his throat. "Bradford Meade was nothing if not focused."

Betty wished for words to make it better, but knew there were none, and furthermore, Daniel didn't expect there to be. He looked into her wide, brown doe eyes; as usual, he loved what he found there, was absolutely staggered by what he found there, and some of the spark, the mischief came back into his electric blue ones. "Also, I wanted a quiet spot to talk to you. Two birds. One stone."

He sat down on the ground in front of the obelisk, leaning back against it. Betty sat beside him.

"You could've just asked me to come with you," she said softly.

"It's much funnier bringing you places under duress. You make the cutest faces when you're surprised."

She dangled the Taco Emporium bag with its little sombrero-wearing cactus—hey, even she could appreciate stereotypical Mexican kitsch—in front of Daniel in an effort to hide her blush. "_Cute." Not bad._

"Have a taco if it will shut you up," Betty said, going for stern.

"Bet you say that to all the guys."

"I have a key to your apartment."

"Shutting up now."

They ate in amiable silence; there was nothing Bradford could say.

**More to come…please review!**


	4. Chapter 4: Denial is a River in Egypt

**A/N: Just want to say that I hope all my readers/reviewers had a fabulous, lovely, rockin', and safe holiday season. I give a heartfelt thanks to every last one of you who took the time to read and/or review my humble fanwank, um, I mean, fanfic. Okay, guys, now we're getting down to the nitty-gritty. Hope you like!**

Betty and Daniel were in the middle of a heated debate over whether or not she should be buried with him. Daniel, as usual, was the instigator, pointing out where he was to be buried next to his dad in the family plot, and that, of course, lead up to what he should be buried with. He favored the notion the Egyptian pharaohs had of having everything they would need or want in the afterlife packed in the pyramids right along with them. As the self-described pharaoh around here, Daniel pointed out reasonably, he'd naturally need Betty and a few other essentials.

"So I guess the plan is to have them exhume your smelly corpse and dump me in right beside you after I kick, along with that porn collection you have that would make Ron Jeremy blush."

"I love how we both pretty much agree I'm shuffling off this mortal coil first. And how do you know about my porn collection?"

"It's right there in your DVD cabinet. _9021-Ho_, Daniel? Really?"

"SO…Gio." Daniel skillfully changed the subject.

"Christ on a cracker, you're nosy tonight. There's really nothing to tell."

"I'll bet."

Betty heaved a melodramatic sigh and bit into a taco, but when she began to speak, Daniel knew it was in earnest. "I guess neither of us was what the other needed. Wanted, maybe, at first, but in the end, not even that."

"And…?"

_"Don't pick up the phone."_

_"Gio, I have to, he's my boss. We've been over this, like, a million times._"

_She looks at her cell's small screen over it's tinny rendition of "La Cucharacha." She can't hide her grin of pleasure._

_Gio can't hide his jealousy, knows it will show on his face, doubts if she would even notice. Even care. He rolls over and pretends to go back to sleep. It was 3 am, for Chrissakes, after all._

"And…that's it." Damn, but he was on to her. He always, _always_ knew when she wasn't giving him the whole truth. Pleading the fifth was never an option with Daniel either, a curse on his interfering hide. Betty decided enough was enough. She was going to bite the bullet and see where this crazy-ass thing led. She knew Daniel, brutally frank as he was, appreciated it from others. He now sat watching her, idly propped up against his father's obelisk and tracing the engraved "M" in "Meade" with his fingertip, his expression dangerously mild and passive.

Betty looked up at the moon and, as if reading off of it, began to speak. "We broke up because Gio said I always put you first. There. Satisfied?"

Daniel was silent, but not offendedly so. When she ventured a glance at him, she wasn't surprised to find he was staring at her with unnerving intensity.

His words came out very clipped, his eyes narrowed into sapphire slits, never leaving hers. "And how did you respond?" This was important to him, she could tell by that expression, which deeply unnerved everyone but her on the rare times that he wore it.

Her eyes never left, couldn't leave, his. "I didn't. I couldn't…Daniel, he wasn't wrong."

"I'm sorry." She could tell that he meant it. She took off her glove and put her hand on his cheek, gently stroking, noting the night stubble growing there. Once, on a late night at Mode, they'd both gotten a little silly with fatigue, and Daniel had reached over and grabbed her from where she sat beside him looking at mock-ups. He'd put his sandpapery cheek against hers and rubbed, eliciting a light, playful smack and a giggle.

"Eleven o'clock shadow," he'd said by way of explanation.

Now even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant moments in their history came rushing back to her, to him, flowing in between them.

In response to his apology, Betty said through swollen vocal chords, "Don't be. I wouldn't have it any other way."

For the past five minutes, Daniel had been fighting the urge to gloat over his rival's fallen, bloody carcass. Maybe he could pull a hit-and-run on Gio tomorrow, stop by his rat-trap sandwich place, yell "HAAAA!!!" really loud, and scoot. He chunked that idea almost immediately, because 1) he'd like to at least give the illusion of class, especially in matters where Betty was concerned, and 2) he could tell the lady in question was in a testy mood tonight and doubtless into the next two months; if he actually carried through on his piss-ant prank, he'd also have to book a surgeon in advance to retrieve his testicles from the rest of him after Betty got done with him.

Of course, what he was about to do, what he couldn't stop from doing when she was looking at him all earnest—wrinkled brow, biting lower lip, serious as grim death—probably wasn't the best course of action, either. Oh, well. Daniel never claimed to be a brain trust.

He picked up the small hand from its place on his cheek. She was starting to go from quizzical to nervous. He could tell because she balled her hands into little fists when she was feeling insecure, and now was no exception. Betty watched wide-eyed as her best friend in this life and the next gently but forcibly opened her fist, kissing the tip of each finger and then, finally, her exposed palm.

It wasn't like Daniel had never kissed her before—just not like _that. _It had always been a brotherly kiss on the top of her head (granted, these usually came when she was about to leave for lunch with her boyfriend at the time, Daniel's eyes never leaving theirs as his lips brushed the top of her head, or cheek, or forehead), or a quick, teasing, mock-gallant kiss on the head after a long day and she'd just brought him much-needed coffee.

Momentarily, Betty found herself feeling confused and scared and delirious and almost _betrayed_ by _Daniel_, of all people. But then, the words of Claire Meade came rushing back to Betty, words of explanation and apology, after Betty and Daniel had had one of their only truly nasty little spats over Henry:

"_Sweetheart, my son always pushes the people he loves most to the limits of their sanity, just to see if they care enough to push back. He did that with his father. Now it looks like he's doing it with you. Don't be too angry with him, Betty. It's a defense mechanism, no more, no less."_

So now Betty did what Bradford had never deigned to do. She pushed back.

She tried valiantly to quell her own pheromone output and that tiny, annoying voice inside her head, or maybe it was her heart, that was saying "WOO-HOO". "Whoa there, cowboy," she said quietly, gently, firmly; thank God her voice didn't shake. "Mind telling me what's going on here?"

Daniel wasn't as gung-ho about his little experimentation now that he realized that he'd just frightened the shit out of the person he loved most in the world.

He had to make it right. _Now_. He reached over and pulled her into his arms, felt his heart stagger and fall out of the gaping hole in his chest at Betty's initial flinch and then felt his heart climb back in again as she relaxed and snuggled against him. Now that he'd been forgiven, his words came out in a jumble.

"God, I'm so sorry, baby, I don't know what's been happening to me," he whispered raggedly into her hair.

"I think…I think I do, because it's been happening to me, too."

Daniel tried to think of what to say, but all his reeling mind could come up with when Betty's supple form was melded to him was the oh-so-brilliant "Really?"

Brilliant or no, just the same, there had never been so much behind that one little, loaded word. Betty's head was down-bent, the top resting against his chest; she did this a lot when she was thinking—walked right over to him and bowed her head to his chest and just stood, until she had worked out whatever.

They both knew exactly what the deal was here, had been feeling it, living it, _breathing_ it for months now.

Apparently, though, Betty was still considering promising real-estate in Denial Land. "But Daniel, we can't," she squeaked muffled, "because it's stress, that's what it is,"--her voice raised another octave—"makes people do wacko things like want to sleep with their best friends and oh, look, there's a full moon and I just said that, didn't I?"

"Uh-huh."

She looked up at him finally, one hand clutched to her chest, the other splayed like a little beached starfish over his heart, feeling how her trip-hammer beat matched his, how, since the day they'd met, their heartbeats had synchronized, their brains had fused new neuron-pathways to accommodate each other's beings in every thought, every action somehow.

Betty sighed dramatically. "Okay, Meade, here's what we'll do. We'll wait two weeks to make good and sure that what this is isn't what happens when one of us gets too much sex and the other"—she jabbed an index finger at herself—"isn't getting any. You know, if we can even make it that long without getting swept away in a sea of unresolved sexual tension, resulting in us making good use of that space under your desk."

She'd meant this last as an ironic joke, but both of them realized it as a stark, hotly real concern.

"And if we can't?" _All right, Betty, come back from your happy place, he's talking to you now._

"And if we can't wait two weeks without trying out your, um, scenario?" he repeated.

"Then you call me." Sexier words had never been spoken. A small, Mona-Lisa-subtle smile quirked the corners of her mouth, she was blushing furiously, and yet her eyes, for the first time in over a year, were serene.

"I mean, a lot can happen in two weeks." And there went the serenity, apparently. Insecure!Betty was on the premises. "You might meet someone. Giselle or someone."

"I won't."

"Well, I might meet…"

"You won't."

"How the heck do you know?"

"I'm psychic."

"Psychotic, more like."

"Well, hello, that's the Meade family legacy."

"Daniel?"

"Hmmm?"

"If we were about to make a colossally stupid mistake of the friendship-ruining, Betty-and-Daniel-devastating variety, you'd tell me wouldn't you?"

"Yep. And we're not."

"I don't want to lose you. I…can't lose you."

He didn't pretend not to know what she meant.

"You won't."

He meant it. He'd make sure of it.

Two weeks…_Daniel, meet your right hand, right hand, meet Daniel. I doubt you've met under such circumstances but something tells me you're going to get very well acquainted…_


	5. Two Week's Notice: The Epilogue

**A/N: Well, guys, here's the epilogue. I've got a new story for this series in the works. Your reviews, as always, are deeply appreciated. I write for you all, so let me know your thoughts. Alrighty then, over and out.**

_Daniel waited until the digital clock blinked 3 am on the dot and decided to take the bull by the horns. The very petite, much adored, wholly adorable bull in question was lying on her stomach, her head turned to face him. _

_Although the room was mostly dark, it was highlighted with a dusky blue-white that highlighted the fresh batch of freckles she'd acquired on her nose after their weekend on the lake. She'd said she simply hated them, but had changed her mind later down in the cabin when Daniel had made his differing opinion of them felt (Whoa, Nelly) as well as known. _

_Now he kissed the tip of her nose, knowing the very instant she snapped awake, although her eyes remained closed. So she was going to play it like that. _

_Fine. _

_He wet the tip of his index finger in his mouth and slowly drew it down her spine. To her credit, she only bit her lip and turned her face into the pillow, although she couldn't help but arch her back against his finger. _

_When he blew gently on the trail he'd made, though, she gave a giggle of mock-protest._

"_Daniel!"_

"_Wakey-wakey."_

_Her eyes drifted dazedly around the room, at her little white strapless slit-up-to-__**there**__ dress, her "Come-fuck-me-Daniel" dress, as Christina so classily dubbed it, draped carelessly over the couch. Needless to say, it had had the desired effect, Daniel thought, if his sore muscles and cloud nine dreams were any indication…_

Daniel sat bolt upright in his sadly solitary bed.

_Well, damn_.

He looked over at the clock. 3 am. Two weeks on the dot. It was time. It was past time, for both of them.

He picked up the phone, dialed her cell. She picked up on the first ring.

"Okay, it's been two weeks."

He could practically feel Betty's blush radiating from the other end of the line.

"I'll be right over," she said.

**The end…okay, not really.**


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